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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765706">wilting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut'>aPaperCupCut</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Don't Starve (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Ending, Gen, Horror, Implied Cannabalism, Implied/Referenced Mental Illness, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nightmare monsters, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, POV Changes, Paranoia, Purple Prose, Repetition, Starvation, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, ambigious ending, bernie is terrifying, giftfic/creative exchange, implied famine, implied willow/wigfrid, kind of hallucinations?, liberties taken with canon, ngl willows really mean to maxwell in this, or. i tried to write horror not sure how well it went, sanity drain/loss of sanity, willow says some things that are probably definitely.... ehhhh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:09:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maxwell, Wilson, and Willow; one dismal night.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>wilting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/gifts">CravenWyvern</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(A gift/exchange/prompt/??? for CravenWyvern/Rotbird!! The specific prompt was: "the very rude invasive nature of Shadows bothering an inhabited three person camp, in which a Teddy Bear and the use of old wilted garlands as well as each others' not so talkative and hesitant, grudging company helps to survive the night and push back Their intruding advances." Lots of little bits and bobs too, and I missed out on bodyhorror!Bernie (a damn shame), and I took the opening for an unhappy ending and ran. Sorry not sorry</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A new moon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pitch black ink of the night sky hangs over the three, a cloth heavy and wet; even as Spring turns to Summer, the rains have not yet fled them. This, at least, can be seen as fortunate, but Wilson can only curse the damp. His hair sticks unpleasantly to his skin, moisture stuck like a fly and staying fast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hadn't been a forgiving Winter. Hasn't been a very forgiving Spring, either. First came the hounds, then the giants, and then the ousting from the main camp. The absent flora and fauna, so strangely vanished like a long ago dream - with just the three of them, with all their stiff anger and bitter words, they hardly stood a chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, today, out of desperation or some kind of need to beg for forgiveness - they went back. With empty bellies, with bickering, with barely a strand of straw to their damned names.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Desperation wasn't a taint felt alone; no, the poison spread far and wide, sinking into the soil and groundwater like a pestilence. Maxwell had been right. Thankfully he, too, was struck with their shared misery, unable to gloat. The main camp had suffered the same injuries as they, and what they found were the broken and abandoned remnants of violence and fear-stench.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good riddance," Willow had said then, but now she sits with her knees clenched tight by ever whitening knuckles. Even then, her bluff rang hollow. They had found the false viking's evidence, after all, and Willow was always a soft heart when it came to her. It hurt to see the worst of anybody, let alone when the action is difficult to understand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least, it's difficult for Willow to understand. Wilson… well, he's been there. He's done that. Forgetting the grief - of which he had little, for what good will was between him and the others was scarce this time round - he was much more inclined to accept it and move right along. Maxwell, it seemed, agreed, and so they left quickly after finding nothing of value among the skeletal remains.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What use are the devoured bones of those too senseless with hunger to see the danger growing beside them? No, better to leave what little was left for the carrion crows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight will be a trial. As they stare at each other, a circle of haggard, starving faces, Wilson can't help but find them… funny. Laughable. He mourns their oncoming deaths, of course, but it's not like it could've ended any other way. The three of them do not mesh well. They do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>sync</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And that, as all of the survivors know - is not very good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wilson, you're thinking too damn loud, pal." Maxwell grunts, rubbing his eyes. Wilson watches for a moment, hypnotized by the severe fingerbones in the man's hands. The marks of age and a hungry life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks, startled, and pulls his own gnawed fingers from his face. His fingernails ache, and he shakes the saliva from them with a weak hand wave. "We have enough time for it, don't we? I'd rather not waste it being pissed off."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're pissing me off," grouses Willow. "Just, shut up. Nobody gives a fuck, anyway."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a beat, no one speaks, too caught up in their own ruminations. Wilson has no doubt Willow's blaming them for her exile; truthfully, he still doesn't know what they did to earn the scorn of Wickerbottom and the others. The group had been of a smaller size this time; surely that should've afforded them leniency, surely - but, as was quickly discovered - of course not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wickerbottom </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> people. She knows who is… </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick</span>
  </em>
  <span> and who is </span>
  <em>
    <span>healthy.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Of course Wilson was seen, he's always seen, of course he is, and while he turns a too kind blind eye to the others, he knows that they are seen as well. It shouldn't have been a surprise-- but he--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah. Shit, that hurts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sniffles, and the pain alleviates; his finger is stained red, but nobody's watching him - he pops it into his mouth again, and sucks away the blood. Ugh. Iron is a terrible last flavour to have in one's mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Wilson."</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell - Maxwell's eyes shine black, the dim firelight swallowed whole in his gaze. "Get up,  pal, and get up </span>
  <em>
    <span>slowly.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without a word, he does, and turns to see whatever had the old man's attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he shouldn't have. Wet breaths coax the air into an apprehensive, stiffling silence; cotton, soaked in chloroform.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lurking over Willow is a Nightmare; not unexpected. What is unexpected is the way it sinks over her; its arms broad, undefined, draping itself across her back. Her eyes are strained wide, the bloodshot whites eating away at her iris. She stares at them, and he can see the way her thin arms tremble and quake under its weight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckers,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" she hisses, and the sound is like the first stream of steam from a pressurized pipe, eager to burst apart. "You mother</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckers</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just gonna watch, huh? Just gonna fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No--" Wilson starts to say, but Maxwell clamps a cold hand over his mouth. The three stare grimly, an overwhelming presence washing over them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something like mold over coffee. Something like oil from a drowning creature. It drifts, slowly at first, and then all at once - Her Gaze, Her Eyes - Watching them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>What about this is entertaining to you? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Wilson thinks hysterically. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What part of this is funny at all anymore?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wilson," the Former King exhales into his ear. "Wilson, there's flowers in the chest. Go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't like the thought, meeting Willow's furious, unreadable eyes - but Maxwell still is the most knowledgeable when it comes to the creatures of this place. The garlands will help, at least for now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chest isn't far; just within reach of the fire, a fact he is grateful for. Willow had pointed out how it might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> close, conscientious as she is, but he thinks that she's just as grateful as he is now at its placement. The flowers, as Maxwell said, are buried deep beneath chunks of rock and flint. A brief impulse nearly takes him, but even as his mouth itches for just a little sustenance, he gathers the wilted blooms up and scurries back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Nightmare, unfortunately, has not dispersed; in fact, the abomination has just grown thicker in tangibility. Chunks of it dribble from its arms, its blank, empty white eyes eerily akin to holes poked through paper. A photograph in negative attributes. It's like a fragment of the moonless, starless night has fallen atop Willow's back, and it is very, very hungry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell stays a distance from her, and the two glare at each other with varying levels of aggression. Both bleed violence into the air, a noxious fume that makes Wilson's eyes water uncontrollably. He gets to weaving the stems together immediately, speeding up the process with teeth and sheer stubbornness. And once he's finished, he throws them to the two bombs about to go off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell doesn't dally, shoving the wilted bouquet atop his head without a care for the petals that come apart under his hurried grip. Willow moves much slower, but the Nightmare just looms darkly; its ink touch has not yet pierced the veil. Little mercies, and all that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't put on his own just yet, twisting it about in his hands. The marks of his teeth on his palms, old scars and new wounds alike - shine through the crumbling flora. He tries to identify what breed of flower they are; but faded as they are, he fears there is no longer a chance of that. His bitten finger throbs minutely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wilson," someone says, and he's yanked back to the present, to unpleasant reality. "Wilson, come here. She's too close, the fire might go out."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuffles back to his place. Yes; looking about, he can see hands, softly swaying in the pitch beyond the firelight. The gloom is already a dark, heavy thing; with the Thing still clutching tight to Willow's back, the chances of a Nightmarish consuming is rather high this night. "I don't particularly like that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Get used to it," she hisses. "At least you don't have some fucked up leech monster on </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> back."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"By morning it should be gone. Just keep your mouth shut, firestarter, and we'll all be fine." Maxwell tosses several sticks into the flame, and Wilson watches the branches ignite quietly. "Just keep quiet, both of you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson smiles at that. Poor Maxwell. The man is no leader, and shirks duty like a cat sheds hair. Wilson doesn't care enough to lend a hand in directing them; Willow would probably prefer they all eat shit and drown rather than continue. He must admit that the Former King's insistence that they keep together despite how much they rub each other raw is admirable - as undeniably self serving and guilt driven as it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell always thinks he knows best, but the poor man is as in the dark as the rest of them - if not more so. He'll always pin himself as the self sacrificing sort, but will be bitter over his own self imposed misery. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What a strange guy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fire flickers, and, as one, the three lurch forward with baited breath and stuttering hearts. Still, nothing reaches from the black fog that surrounds them - a trick of the light, or something more malicious? In a place like this, there is no way to tell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wilson notes dully, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the flowers are as ash in my hand.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Falling apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willow's eyes are a sheen of white. The thing on her back caresses her gently, but it's like she no longer takes heed of it - she's locked gazes with Wilson, and she won't let go. She can't. She refuses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's inside her eyes. Mirrored perfectly. Or is that the truth? The truth is that his reflection's mouth sneers while he remains blankly frozen, and his reflection's fingers click out some obscure rhythm of static against his arms. He's watching her. He's hungry. He's very hungry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson can't seem to blink. He tries to swallow, but his throat just convulses, saliva caught in his mouth, pooling thickly around his molars. He's caught like water in an empty flask - stuck. He's watching him watch her watch him, watching her - a circling, dizzying loop. Someone else bulges the fabric and grips his jaw, and his eyes stream, stinging his false flesh--</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiots,</span>
  </em>
  <span>" comes a snarl, and his head is jerked to the left, breaking the tie between them. "Do you not use your ears? Are they just for show? Damned idiots, both of you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson's mouth clams shut, but Willow appears more furious than ever. "We weren't talking, old man. Just enjoying the fucking silence."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You, </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> you, need to keep quiet. Wilson, come here. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't move. His eyes flicker around the clearing, his skin crawling at the thought of looking at anybody else after what he'd so clearly seen in her gaze. Not to mention he's no longer sure he can stand; his stomach is a pit, as it has been for the past few days, but it's like his knees have gone and decided to join the army rather than stay and bring his bones comfort. Not that he can blame them, but the feeling of his legs locking into place and growing numb to the point of nonexistence is… unpleasant, to say the least. If he looks down now, will he find only empty space? The thought of something actually being there is disturbing, so he doesn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wouldcha look at that, Wilson's ignoring you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shut it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Fuck off, oldtimer. It's been a long time coming and you know it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Shut. It."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why should I? You're the one with a stick up yer ass! You're the one who keeps insisting we do this shit, over and over again! So why don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> 'shut it' if you find me talking so fucking annoying?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"God, you're insufferable."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not any more than you, toots."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don't talk much, but he can't help but grimace at their yammering. They're not saying anything; all that flies out their red, cherry mouths is empty nothing words. At the thought, he has to shut his aching eyes - in his head, an image. Do they have teeth? Have they fallen out? Yellow stalactites hang from bloodless gums, the mouth full of red. Like a filling of blood, like a release of a jawful of something thick. Disgusting, he realizes, that's fucking disgusting. Mayhaps disturbing. He frowns, consternated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear their breathing. Maxwell breathes slowly, alternating between deep inhales and short exhales, each more wheezing than the last. He always suffers some affliction of the lungs, Wilson has come to realize; what from and how great the issue affects him is unknown to him. Maxwell is secretive - or perhaps the better word would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>evasive</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>avoidant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Dysfunctional, but then again who among them is functional?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willow's breathing is much more shallow, fast breathes that pant from clenched teeth more oft than not. She hates breathing, despises the necessity of it, and loathes each exhale more than the last. The Nightmare clicks its pleasure, something simple. Wilson wishes more things were like that - simple.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I would if I could," he murmurs, soft. His fingers grasp at his face. "Envious, you both are." He opens his eyes, glad that the words were too quiet for either to hear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell is overly pale. He's not hiding the way his shoulders ache as much as he usually does, and looks terribly worn; the shadows under his eyes appear like immolations, purple and black and pink. His jaw is bruised; what flesh is left free of injury is so white from illness that the veins beneath pulse vividly under the light of the fire. Spider veins spread thinly at his temples, the skin pinched and unhealed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Wilson. You're staring."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't meet the person's eyes. They feel like oil, and he doesn't like that. Bile rises in his throat, a secret oath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You're disgusting," he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What? That's it?" Willow laughs. In the corner of his eye, she rocks back mockingly, her grin a sharp creature of bloodlust. "That's all? Boy, you're pathetic."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sigh, rustle of cloth. "I don't think I have to point out that I don't particularly care, pal."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A beat. He says, "But you do, don't you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilson.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Are you alright?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What?" He blinks, confused. "Yes. Not that we could do much if I wasn't. Are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> alright?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell grimaces. "No, of course not, pal. Willow over there keeps attracting more of Them, you've obviously not got all your screws, and I'm stuck between you two simpletons like a sad piece of lettuce betwixt two stale pieces of bread. Of course I'm not."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I applaud your honesty," snarks Willow, voice full of sarcasm. "A step up from the little man over there. But don't claim you two aren't attracting your fair share of these fuckers."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She's not wrong; the clearing has grown darker for it, the empty spaces bulging now with Things that shouldn't be. He knows he shouldn't look at Them, but she was also not wrong in implying his dishonesty; he feels as though he were floating in midair, nothing to hold on to, rather than with both feet on the ground, knees locking him in place. The flowers in his hands have disintegrated into nothing; illogical, he knows, but he feels guilt - as if his precariousness had drained the wilting blooms of any remaining life they possessed. Maxwell and Willow's look alright still, thankfully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They look alright, compared to him. He thinks. He tends not to linger on how they look, except to think of what they look like. Willow, he knows, looks beautiful; Maxwell, simply aged. It's rather funny, the ways he can't tell that and the ways he can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight, of course, they look like they're dying. Which they are, a natural recourse for foul water and little food.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson itches his cheek. His finger nearly makes him hiss, but he's glad that only the slightest frizz greets his touch. He doesn't want his corpse to be hairy when They find him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They're murmuring, all and none. Wilson doesn't care enough to listen. Mouths move in a heavenly sync. He does like it when they fall into such rhythms; when the Thing with weeping white eyes has a mouth of brass following Maxwell's deep cadence, how it telegraphs the Former King's impulses - its long hands wrapping ever so carefully about its wrist and dragging in the mud, as if it could leave behind fragments of its skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell looms. He knows he does, because the light grows hotter for it; he knows that it is not intentional. Maxwell looms, and lengthens, an emotion akin to rumbling heavy in the air. She doesn't like it. At all. The Thing on her back slides away from her, slowly at first and then all at once; it's eaten its fill. For now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No words are exchanged. They are quiet now, in a way they weren't before. The black night feels more oppressive than it did before, stifling and suffocatingly dark. It has swallowed everything around them, creaking and scuttling sounds the only things to indicate a world beyond the glow of the fire. Hands stroke circles around them, a careful dance, Watching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Watching.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson watches the two as if it were a game. Maybe it is. He'll wake up on the morrow with barely a memory of the night before, of the lifetime before; who's to say it isn't?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willow's fists whiten, clenched so tight. Her teeth grind, her white eyes twin moons in the sunken depressions of her skull; sickness wafts off of her in waves. She had clung to the idea of hope, when Maxwell finally convinced Wilson to go to the camp. She hadn't wanted to, but then again she did. All she got for it was a taste of something putrid in the back of her throat, a breaking of trust - but it won't remain broken, because she'll decide she doesn't care. That is how Willow is: disgusted and hateful until she decides she doesn't want to be. She rarely decides that, but Wigfrid is an exception. She'll forgive her for the trespass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson doesn't understand. He puts his chin in his palm, Watching still. Willow is a goddamn conundrum, an enigma; he can't figure if he finds her bewildering to the point of annoyance or if he is infatuated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She's going to hurt Maxwell. It is so clear that it might as well be in bright pink lettering screaming, "I HATE YOU AND I BLAME YOU." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell sees it, but his intentions are just as clear in the Thing lurking at his ankles. His features become starker; purple bruises blooming blacker, pale skin shot through with blue veins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like polar opposites; both dying, both sickly, they will fly together and bloody their broken bones against the other's jagged edges.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson's spine is numb. His eyes water, and the world sways drunkenly around him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he next opens his eyes, they haven't attacked. Willow still stands, but Maxwell refuses to confront her. His hands, though, are pink; his long, arthritic fingers shine, the skin split by fingernail scratches and swollen about the knuckles. Anxious kneading and itching, nothing so dramatic as biting. Wilson's own fingers are just as gone away from him as his legs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willow breaks the claustrophobic silence. "A coward, huh? Just a goddamn coward. All bark and no bite. Betcha don't even have the balls to cut your own hand open."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Former King remains stoic. Tired. The Lurker curls its hands around his ankles, gentle even as it smears something foul across the hem of his trousers. Wilson swallows painfully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs, more of a bark like she'd accused Maxwell of having than a sound of satisfaction. "Can't do a damn thing, can you? Just some worthless sonuvabitch, trying to play at leader. But we don't play your games anymore, do we? You're stuck in a hole and you're just digging yourself deeper and deeper, toots."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence answers her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You really are just a spineless rat," she hisses. Like a drum, her words grow loud, spit from chapped lips, bleeding gums. Her thin, starving shoulders shake, rage a noise in her lungs and a tremour in her muscles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Expressionless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just some spineless </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> rat. Oh, poor wittle Maxie, he got eyes too big for his teeny stomach and got eaten by a shadow! Poor helpless wittle Maxie, he got his girlfriend all fucked up in the head!" Her hands fling about her skull, her hair stringy and glued to her scalp by sweat. Like a tidal wave, the air convulses; nothing touches her. "Poor wittle Maxie. He's stuck with mad motherfuckers and he just don't know what to do with himself! Why, he's just beside himself!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of a sudden, a hurricane - she lunges, yanking him up, his head whipping back from the force of it. She shakes him, his face a mask of the new moon, nothing where his eyes should be, but she's not afraid. Oh, no, she's far too enraged, far too tired, far too hungry - far too fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his pathetic bullshit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know what pisses me off, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pal</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" She jerks him close, snarling into his blank face. "You coulda just fucked off this time. Not like it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault. Instead you stuck around, sniffin' down at us lunatics like you're so high and fuckin' mighty. Well, I got somethin' to tell ya, Maxie."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shove, he goes sprawling, mud splattering his face as he tries to turn, his shoulder hitting the ground with a wet thud. But she's not done yet, of course not; her hands sting, her nails cutting into her palms. "You're not any better than us, got that, you sick fuck?! Not any better, just as fucked up and broken as us </span>
  <em>
    <span>pawns--</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A strangled gurgling interrupts them. Wilson's scrambled behind the log he'd been resting upon, pins and needles setting fire to his legs, but he's still Watching with wide, white eyes. All around the three strangers, shadows twist and churn, ambivalent to their distress; something like a laugh, high and pitched, echoes in waves as the gurgling - a sound of drowning, a sound of coughing, a sound of disease - tenses and then rises. The Nightmares - the Lurker, formless except for thin hands that pet doggedly at Maxwell's shadow, and the Thing, still lingering at Willow's back, her pigtails twirling as it inhales her scent - each of them grow blacker, melding into the night's pitch as watercolours bleed, still fresh, not yet dry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willow hushes. She backs away. She's no fool, not like these two morons - she won't risk her neck just for some petty words, even if such things bring her relief. She recedes back to the place she'd claimed for her own, a tsunami tide pulling far back and away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The firelight is dim; Maxwell struggles to sit up, dusting himself off halfheartedly. Even as They grow in number and noise, he is stalwart; a stubborn old fool, exactly as Willow accuses him to be. But he won't die from the darkness. He refuses to. If he shall die, it will be by hands and claws he can see, not by some presence that makes his heart ache and rattle in his weak chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson has not moved, silent and Watching. Something's come over him, a veil he cannot shake, and he is all too aware of what the morrow will bring. Despite that, he is covetous of the small thoughts writ across his companions' - if you could call them that - faces. He rubs his thumb over his bitten index, huddled behind his log as if that will save him when the light finally flickers out. The darkness at his back is empty; what was there is somewhere else, now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No more words are exchanged, heated or tense ones alike, as Willow draws out Bernie from the knapsack she'd thrown aside. The stuffed animal is more like a doll than a plush toy, with rigid limbs and stitches like paint crisscrossing its form. It will protect blindly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If it wakes up at all. As on edge as Willow is, her tolerance towards the darkness is almost ludicrously strong; she is not afraid, and she is not angry - not at Them. She hardly cares for Them. And Bernie hardly cares for the two in her company.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson feels faint. He wipes the back of his hand against his forehead, his skin clammy and cold. His fingers come away wet, dampened with a silvery sheen; his head pounds dully, blood rushing quietly in his ears. He's still Watching, still - waiting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something within the black of the night sweeps its robe of shadow into the flame's light; it is unrecognizable, familiar in its intensity. The light does not touch it; does not penetrate it. It steps forward, and it sucks the air from their lungs, makes the very earth silver in moonlight that does not exist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No words; the gurgling crescendoes, a howl - a moan - a terrified cry, wet and sobbing and hysterically </span>
  <em>
    <span>empty.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wilson feels his lungs collapse, his chest making weak attempts at inhalation of the substance of inhuman blood in the air, but he stutters and fails. His eyes burn and blister, his hair stands straight on the back of his neck - and he can do nothing but Watch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bernie groans, low at first and then rising to join the cacophony of inhuman misery that drowns the camp in horror. It doesn't so much stand, lengthening and thickening, so much as </span>
  <em>
    <span>decay</span>
  </em>
  <span> upright</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Willow lets it free from her white hands, her eyes so wide that the flesh holding them inside her sockets flinches at the first touch of tainted air. The bear looms, and she disappears behind it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson can't - he can't figure - he can't see what happens. He knows it, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it - but despite Watching, Watching it all and knowing it all so very, very clearly - it is as if his mind shys away from it. A thrice bitten vermin, riddled with scars and tense with anxiety, his brain cannot. The frustration is blinding, tears pearling in the back of his eyes, but he has no time for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No time for it. No time for anything at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like a cave, like a deep wood, like a flame; Bernie swallows the Lurker, the Thing, the unfamiliar Shade. Not quickly, no: it strikes slowly, it moves so slowly, and yet Wilson can only know that They are there and then gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Lurker is a cowardly creature, screeching as if to wake the dead as the bear digs it free from where it nestles in the cold mud. It tries to scramble, tries to pull itself free, its long fingers dragging and then pinching at Maxwell's heels - the Former King, pale and disastrous, kicks it free without remorse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It cries. Sobs. Wretched, cursed thing; barely born, and then torn in half, and then vanished into the black pith of the bear's jaws. Nightmare fuel spatters down its front, soaking Maxwell in the spray. He looks on. He is too weak to summon his own companions; stilled by exhaustion, by starvation, by mind numbing fear. He cannot do a thing as his body moves without him - crawling until he is tucked close to the fire, mud and fuel dirtying him. He almost laughs, the impulse stuck in his throat and caught in the crevices of his aching teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants - something. Something to tear his eyes away from Them, from Bernie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Such an insipid name for something so frightening,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, and finally a croaking, near silent laugh creaks out from behind his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Thing puts up a fight, more than its compatriot did. It wrestles with the monster, solid body twitching and spasming at the parts its enemy's claws grasp and tear. But it is weak, and it is young; its throat an easy target. It spills down, a cascade of fuel so much like blood that vomit rises in his dry throat. Tears bubble in its round white eyes; for the smallest fraction of a moment, they lock gazes. Melancholy hisses deep inside his belly, incomprehensible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Its flesh seethes and boils, its body rebelling as Bernie's claws, so large and powerful, lodge deep within it. Its human eyes roll back, nightmare fuel peeling back around the orbs like melting meat, and then they drop to the ground, two perfect spheres, where they shatter into millions of black fragments.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bernie roars, animalistic, raw - turned human, it is a scream that incites the ears to bleeding. The Shade, once so confident in its display of momentary power, a bliss it has never held before, stumbles back. Its unchanging expression somehow tells of its fear, of its knowledge, but it is too slow and far too late to flee; like the hurricane its owner embodies, the monster lunges and catches it easily within its grip. It is no battle at all; a bear of some unknown power, breaking open the head of a lone Shadow like an egg. Its fluids pop out from the motion, then flood out, soaking everything within reach. Violence, and then silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their presence recedes, slowly; leaving only one behind, but She is an eternal constant. She will not leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Willow is gone, Bernie with her. She is sick of them. She is gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maxwell - he might as well be a corpse, but he is not, not yet. He wheezes each breath, his hair damp with sweat and mud, but his eyes are feverishly bright and wide. He found something to tear him away. It opens his heart and makes him blind; in the farthest reaches of his whited out mind, he looks away. The next day may not come for him, but this place does not abandon its stolen denizens so quickly. He will have another day, and another. Not yet will he fade away, his gaze turned empty by apathy; not yet will he be worn down into nothing, the seeds he'd unknowingly sown bearing rotten fruit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wilson's hands have gone cold; his bones are immolations of his tattered nerves. He watches, now, with singular focus; he feels cold, then hot, then cold again. His face is wet; his eyes burn with the urge to blink, but he stares unblinkingly into the clearing, the carcasses steaming faintly, stealing away his attention and his mind. If his head were coherent, he'd wish it empty; all there is inside him, filling him up to choking, to drowning, is the sewn together screams of a high pitched creature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a nightmare, and it is gone now. It wasn't that foul of one; just visceral, just strange. The eye folds formlessly in his, a connection his heart yearns to undo.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a new moon. There are flowers and ashes, left behind by this night; wilting, pitiful remnants, rejected by no one and nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun will rise into an empty clearing. The sun will peek its dead face into a space with a black shadow; the fire will have long since died, scattered to the four winds. The bodies will have decomposed into nothingness, and only the stench shall remain.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hope i landed this but ehhh not so sure. happy with it despite that</p>
<p>also left the spaces in that html left, because I Think Thats Rather Stylish</p>
<p>ALSO go read <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern">CravenWyvern's</a> fics rn!!!! They have an awe inspiring writing style and a talent at handling complex and difficult matters subtly and beautifully. I'm also gonna point at their awesome art on their <a href="https://rottingbirdies.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> as well cuz im an ass &gt;.0</p></blockquote></div></div>
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